


Induction

by Boxcult (Brynnen), Brynnen



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: British puddings are serious business, British swearing, Cooking, Friendship, Gen, custard is important, silly fluff, spotted dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 10:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14162934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynnen/pseuds/Boxcult, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynnen/pseuds/Brynnen
Summary: Tracer introduces Winston her her favourite pudding.





	Induction

'Spotted what?' Winston asked in utter befuddlement.

  
'Only the best bloody pudding in the world! Spotted Dick!'

  
Tracer was practically dancing around him, twirling in glee at the mere thought of this... spotted dick. Winston blinked again in the face of his energetic friend's sheer enthusiasm.

  
'I must admit, I've never had any of this... spotted dick.' In fact Winston was reasonably sure he'd overheard some of the squaddies using the term as a grotesque euphemism for some kind of social disease.

  
'I know how to make it, so let me induct you into the Cult Of The Dick.' Tracer waggled her eyebrows at him saucily and Winston gave her a longsuffering sigh that only made her giggle. 'C'mon, it'll be fun! You remember fun, right?'

  
It had been several days since he'd last left the lab and the thought occurred to Winston that the cockney might conceivably be concerned for him.

  
'If you insist.'

  
'I certainly do!' With a funny little bob of a bow Tracer held out her arm to him in a courtly gesture he recognised from the last period drama they'd watched together. He placed his hand in the crook of her elbow and endeavoured to match her jaunty swagger as they headed towards the base's kitchens.

  
'Roigh', you get out the eggs, milk and butter while I handle the dry stuff.' Tracer dragged a chair across the room and used it as as step up to the cupboard where the suet and flour were kept. Like she always said, if life don't fit right, adapt! While up on the higher ground she flicked the knob of the radio round and bubblegum pop filled the air. It was something cheerful and energetic she vaguely recognised and she began singing along, improvising the lyrics she couldn't remember.

  
'Now then, Mister Moon Gorilla Scientist Engineer. Spotted dicks are a steamed, not baked pudding. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to engineer a system for getting a two-foot-long dough-sausage all hot and steamy without blowing the bleedin' doors off the oven, burning the pud or using materials from outside this kitchen.'

  
Was she trying to distract him from how abysmal at cooking he was? To make him feel as if he were contributing? Winston smiled, ignoring the memories of mouthfuls of eggshell, flour on the ceiling and pancakes somehow simultaneously still half-raw and yet on fire.

  
As he rummaged around for materials he voiced the question he'd had since she raised the topic. 'How come you're so good at this? You don't usually seem to...'

  
'Have the patience for all this fannying around? Yeah, but I love a proper pudding and if you want the good stuff rather than the mess' dross then you have to learn to fend for yourself.' She shrugged, a jitter of adrenaline fuelling the manic motion.

  
Oh. 'Another bombing raid?'

  
'Yeah, me'n Terry were protecting Sheila's crew. 'Snot pretty out there some days.' Her voice was flat and Winston winced.  
With a visible effort Tracer yanked her mood around 180 degrees and slapped him on the back.

  
'Boom! Yer a silverback now!'

  
A floury handprint stood out against the dark fur of his back, making it shine almost silver. Winston snorted and reared up to thump his chest like the wild, unmodified gorillas he'd seen in a nature documentary once.

  
'I have transformed into my final form! No one can stop me now!' He played along, hammily quoting one of the villains from those peculiar cartoons Genji seemed to like so much. It was evidently the correct thing to do - Tracer cackled in delight and struck what was clearly meant to be a dramatic pose. In fact she resembled one of the goofier statues of some half-forgotten dictator.

  
'Foul fiend! Professor Silverback, your dastardly scheme will never work for I... Justice Ranger will thwart you in the name of love and puppies!'

  
'I'd like to see you try.' Winston chuckled at the tiny human's posturing, then had to hurry to defend himself against Tracer's frontal assault with the wooden spoon she'd been using to mix the pudding ingredients.

  
Hastily he grabbed up a nearby teatowel and flapped it like a whip to deflect the blow, dislodging a large gobbet of sticky dough which flew up and then dropped right into his face.

  
Tracer froze, a nervous grin spreading across her face at the dough slid down his forehead and then dropped onto his chest with an audible 'splut'. She giggled at the sound. Goofy, playful Winston was such a treat compared with his usual sombre, careful attitude. She knew why he did it, so people viewed him as a funny-looking scientist rather than a threat, but it was sad to see his sense of humour going to waste.

  
'Are you sure there aren't any hyaenas in your family tree? They're the only species I've ever encountered that might possibly match that laugh of yours.'

  
She snorted. 'Right then, big guy, we're about ready to shape this and chuck it into a big old bain marie to cook.' She paused for thought. 'Did you see any custard powder knocking about?'

  
'We ate most of it with the bananas last week.' Winston reminded her as he lifted the heavy pan into the oven. 'Then Sergeant Suker made nanaimo bars and then...'

  
'Oh yeah, the custard pie incident.' Tracer chortled at the memory of that particular incident. 'Well, you've got ter have spotted dick with custard, it's practically a law. Unless there's a tin or two of the good stuff knocking about we'll have to make some from scratch.

  
The kitchen filled with the sweet, warmly spiced scent of the pudding as it cooked and Tracer systematically scoured the area for custard, Winston looking on with amusement as he recognised the methodology as being plucked directly from the international search and rescue flying textbook Tracer kept in her room (tucked on her bookshelf behind a carefully painted Airfix model of a Mosquitp aeroplane). He hummed along with the radio as it played a song he recognised from the hit parade.

  
Eventually Tracer crowed in triumph, holding a box aloft like a trophy. 'I knew Torby had some! I'm sure I've seen him dipping his herring in custard before!' They both shuddered at that thought.

  
Steam and a delicious scent flooded the kitchen as Winston lifted the heavy pan from the oven, Tracer beating the custard mixture with a whisk and filling a large jug with it while he placed the completed pudding on a serving dish. It was an awfully big pudding for just the two of them....

  
Winston nearly dropped the platter when he came out into the dining room and was faced with an entire squadron.

  
'Dinnae hog the pud, man!' One ginger-haired male shouted at him, apparently unfazed by the sight of a pudding-weilding seven-foot-high gorilla.

  
'C'mon Winston, dish it up, we're starving!' Tracer said, following him in with a two-litre jug of custard. Having worried that the portions might be excessive, it seemed they might run short when faced with a squad of hungry pilots, mechanics and linies.

  
'Winston has been my glamorous assistant today and a darn sight better in the kitchen than some of you bastards, naming no names!'

  
A cheer went up for him, even as several heads ducked in embarrassment at Tracer's insinuation. Winston took it upon himself to carefully divide the pudding into even portions (having hastily counted all present and divided appropriately to the nearest millimetre) and he was touched that Tracer had chosen to involve him in what was clearly an important post-mission ritual for her and her colleagues.

  
Sat down at last with his own bowl, Tracer's elbow jabbing into his side as she relished her portion Winston let the warm camaraderie wash over him. For the first time in a long time he was accepted. He belonged.


End file.
